


two exorcists walk into a bar

by ggggnashville



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: M/M, some alcohol some cigarettes some punching some hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 13:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13435242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggggnashville/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: They drink three beers a piece. Marcus plays songs on a jukebox. They watch a group of men younger than both of them shoot pool and Marcus criticizes their technique. “I could probably win some money off them,” Marcus comments, but Tomas rejects the idea immediately.





	two exorcists walk into a bar

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory road trip fic

It’s late spring in Michigan, and they are bellied up to the bar. It’s a small one Marcus pointed out as they drove past on a random patch of freeway. The town itself is tiny, the type with one streetlight and large stretches of farmland. In truth, Tomas has always loved this part of the country. It’s so unlike Chicago. There’s something very pleasant and charming about it. Like it dropped out of a painting.

The dim orange glow of the lamps overhead don’t do much in the way of lighting. Marcus’ face is still half shadowed, but he actually looks happy here. He looks a bit tired from driving, but is otherwise unscathed.

“How you feeling?” Marcus asks. He rubs at his beard. He needs a shave, and so does Tomas.

Tomas frowns in an unserious way and tilts his head to the side slightly. “Not so bad. The coffee from earlier helped.”

“Good,” Marcus says, and motions for the bartender. She’s got teased brown hair and a lot of eyeliner on, though she looks to be in her mid-forties. He orders two beers and they go down smoothly. It might be one of those nights. A night where Marcus drinks a little too much and passes out with his shoes still on in an unwashed motel room where the sheets smell like dust and there’s mold in the bathtub. None of it is ideal, but Tomas can’t seem to be bothered by it.

They drink three beers a piece. Marcus plays songs on a jukebox. They watch a group of men younger than both of them shoot pool and Marcus criticizes their technique. “I could probably win some money off them,” Marcus comments, but Tomas rejects the idea immediately.

Eventually one of the men heads to the end of the bar where two women sit together. He’s clearly hitting on them, and it’s clearly unsuccessful. At one point, the man begins to play with the woman’s hair and she looks so visibly uncomfortable Tomas has to grip the edge of the bar.

“We should do something,” Tomas says quietly. Marcus sips at his beer, nods, and before Tomas can say another word Marcus is at the man’s side. Tomas looks around the bar wildly, realizing that the man is not alone, that he’s got several friends standing around the pool table, watching the scene unfold. “Shit,” Tomas says, and gets up.

Marcus is leaning back against a nearby table, grinning and clearly pleased with himself.

“Are you having a good time talking to him?” Marcus asks the woman. She shakes her head. “Do you want him to go away?” She nods this time.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” The man asks.

“I am. See, it is my business, because I can see how upset she is, which is interrupting my enjoyment of the evening.”

“I’d walk away if I were you.” The man is tall, and he’s probably closer to two hundred pounds than not.

“No,” Marcus says, then laughs, laughs hard and loud, and Tomas sighs.

The men around the pool table have begun to circle them. It’s been a few months since Tomas punched something that wasn’t a demon, and he takes a few deep breaths, readying himself.

The man punches Marcus hard in the face, and Marcus stumbles back a little, holding his face in his hands.

“I told you to walk away,” the man says. Marcus responds by punching the man in the stomach and Tomas finds himself pulling Marcus away. He doesn’t get very far, as the men around the pool table have surround them.

“Awe man, don’t make me hit a priest,” one of them says, looking at Tomas’ collar.

“Well, I guess you are going to have to,” Tomas responds, and punches the man in the jaw. It hurts his knuckles. He turns and sees blood dripping down Marcus’ face. They’re clearly out-numbered, and as a man grabs Tomas roughly by his shirt they’re interrupted by the bartender’s shouts.

“Get out, now! All of you, or I’m calling the police!”

As they leave, Tomas sees the woman’s face, and though she looks worried she mouths an undeniable _thank you,_ at Tomas as he and Marcus leave the bar.

 

 

They go out to the truck. Tomas opens his duffle bag with his meager amount of clothing and gets out a t-shirt. It needs to be washed but it will have to do. He puts his hand on the back of Marcus’ neck and holds the t-shirt to his nose.

“Is it broken?”

“Probably,” Marcus says. “It’s fine. I’ll just reset it.”

“You know how to do that?”

“Sure, this isn’t the first time I’ve broken my nose. It’s not even the first time it wasn’t a demon. A couple of nuns taught me.”

Tomas laughs. His hand hurts from punching the man’s jaw. It had been so satisfying, though he knows it shouldn’t be. There’s blood dripping from Marcus’ nose, down his chin, onto his shirt, onto Tomas’ fingers.

“You finally got in a bar fight with me,” Marcus says, words muffled by the shirt. Tomas rolls his eyes.

“We need ice.”

 

 

 

Tomas drives. Marcus holds his head back and hums to himself. Tomas smiles at the light humming, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. Tomas shouldn’t even be driving, but one of them had to.

They pull into a liquor store two miles away from the bar.

“Wait here,” Tomas says, but Marcus throws the bloody t-shirt onto his seat and gets out anyway.

“You don’t know what I want.”

They head inside and Marcus heads straight to the whiskey aisle. Marcus grabs a bottle, and it’s all the same to Tomas anyway. They reach the counter and Marcus points towards the cigarettes.

“And some of those,” Marcus says, flicking his finger in the general direction. He throws cash down.

“And some ice,” Tomas says. Marcus laughs.

“Right. And some ice.”

 

 

Tomas parks off the side of a dirt road. They’re near a farm, but not close enough for anyone who might live there to notice. Marcus grabs the bag of ice, the cigarettes, and the whiskey and hops into the back of the truck. Tomas joins him, unbuttoning his shirt and taking the collar off. He rubs at his neck, feeling like he can finally breathe. Tomas opens the bag of ice and wraps a few pieces into another shirt, and places it against his knuckles.

Marcus unscrews the cap on the whiskey and takes a long gulp.

“This is gonna hurt,” he says, probably more to himself than to Tomas. Marcus places each hand on the sides of his nose, exhales softly, and then in a quick motion pulls both hands to the left. He groans, then takes a handful of ice, places it in the bloody shirt and presses it to his face. He hisses, moans, then shuts his eyes.

“You okay?” Tomas asks.

“Yeah. Fine.”

Tomas looks up at the sky. They’re clearly far away from any cities, Tomas can see so many stars. Tomas leans against the truck and stretches his legs out. He lets out a soft groan. He’s tired, but too alert with adrenaline.

After twenty minutes, Marcus gives up on the ice. It falls into a puddle inside the bloodied shirt. Marcus sniffles and then gives Tomas a huge grin, like he’s proud of getting punched in the face. Tomas laughs into the back of his hand. He probably is.

Marcus takes another long swig out of the bottle and hands it over to Tomas. As Tomas reaches for the bottle he realizes there is still blood underneath his fingernails. A stranger’s blood, but Marcus’ as well. He drinks. He resists the urge to ask Marcus how his nose is, he’ll say it’s fine regardless. There’s blood stains on his shirt as well as Marcus’, and he’s surprised the liquor store cashier didn’t question anything. Of course, they are in the middle of nowhere. As Tomas puts the bottle down Marcus takes the pack of cloves out of his pocket and rips open the wrapping. He lights one and the air turns sweet. Tomas wouldn’t normally approve of Marcus smoking. Shouldn’t now. But he’s drunk, and watching Marcus smoke is making his throat dry. He reaches for the bottle again.

“I didn’t know you even smoked,” Tomas says. “I didn’t notice for a while.” Marcus smirks, the one that’s always so smug and frustrating and enticing.

 “I don’t,” Marcus says, and when he laughs, he cringes, and almost touches his nose. “Only on special occasions.”

“Are special occasions just when you’re drunk?” Tomas asks, reaching for the bottle again.

Marcus raises his eyebrows, feigning offense. “Yes,” he says, and Tomas throws his head back to laugh. “Do you want one?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Me neither. Here,” Marcus says, and hands Tomas his lit cigarette. Tomas takes a drag and hands it back. Their fingers brush momentarily, and Tomas suppresses the urge to take his hand.

“That tastes like cinnamon.”

“Precisely.” Marcus drinks from the bottle again, one vice in each hand.

The night is warm, with just a slight breeze. The moon is bright and Tomas can see Marcus perfectly in the pale light.

“I don’t think we’ll make it to a motel,” Tomas says. He doesn’t even know how close one might be, and they’re both far too drunk to drive.

“I agree,” Marcus says. There’s dried blood in his beard. Each time he brings the cigarette to his lips, looking pensive, Tomas can’t help but wonder what Marcus really thinks of him.

“Do you ever--” Tomas starts, then stops, embarrassed. He shakes his head and laughs to himself.

“What is it?” Marcus sits up a little straighter, leaning towards Tomas. Their shins are almost touching.

“Do you ever regret taking me with you?”

Marcus watches Tomas for a few moments, and Tomas thinks he might crawl out of his skin with embarrassment. Marcus has rolled up his shirt sleeves. He puts his cigarette out on his boot heel.

“Why are you asking?” Marcus says. His voice is flat. His face is unreadable.

Tomas feels his face go hot. Like a little kid with a crush. _I just want you to like me._ Tomas shakes his head, feeling foolish. “I don’t know. You’ve been on your own for a long time. You told me when we first met. You didn’t want the responsibility.”

Marcus fully smiles then, and a laugh rolls out of him the likes of which Tomas hasn’t heard in at least a month.

“I really didn’t. I hadn’t had a partner in a long time.”

“You had another partner?”

Marcus makes a mumbling noise and drinks again. Tomas hates to think it, but the thought comes anyway: Marcus looks breathtaking like this. With blood on his face, drunk, needing a shave. Very rugged, undeniably attractive and undeniably male. If Tomas were sober, the thought would most likely frighten him, but drunk he doesn’t mind it at all. Welcomes it even. It’s more like a heightening of what’s been hiding in the back of his mind.

“Do you miss it?” Marcus asks suddenly. “Chicago.”

Tomas finishes off the cigarette, surprising himself with being able to finish it, then shrugs.

“I do. Sometimes. But not enough to go back.”

“Do you like this?”

“This?” Tomas knows Marcus means exorcisms and finds himself reaching for the whiskey. Marcus laughs again.

“Yeah,” Marcus says. “Yeah.”

“This? This is hell. It’s exhausting in every way. Ways I didn’t know were possible. I’m tired. I’m angry. I feel like….I feel like sometimes…sometimes I feel nothing at all. It’s terrifying.” Tomas pauses. Takes a swig from the bottle. Puts it down on the truck bed. “I love it.”

Marcus throws his head back and cackles. He even kicks his feet a little. Tomas starts giggling, feeling warmer and more content than he has in ages. “It’s funny,” Tomas continues, “because it’s not really about enjoying it. I love it because…because for the first time I can feel Him. I never did before. I wanted to, but I never did. My sister, she would say to me, ‘Tomas, you don’t have to be a priest.’ And I would say, ‘I’m good at my job. I like my job.’ I just wanted so badly to _have_ to be a priest. I wanted there to be no other option. But now? Now I…this is it, do you know what I mean?”

Marcus nods slowly. “I know exactly what you mean.”

They get quiet after a few minutes and Marcus lies down on his back in the truck bed, using his right arm as a pillow, the left only a few inches away from Tomas. Tomas follows suit, stretches his legs out. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’s drunk and earnestly happy. Tomas concentrates on Marcus’ breathing. Just out of the corner of his eye, Tomas can see Marcus’ chest moving up and down slowly. Tomas stares intently at the stars, doing his best not to look at Marcus.

There’s no reason for it at all, other than that Tomas is drunk and Marcus is so close to him he may combust, their shoulders brushing as they continue to settle into sleep. Tomas reaches across the few inches separating them and runs a finger over Marcus’ knuckles. Tomas hears Marcus inhale sharply, but neither of them move their hands away. Tomas continues his experiment, and places his hand on top of Marcus’, about to thread their fingers together. Marcus’ hand moves quickly, and Tomas finds his wrist held sharply and tightly.

Tomas swallows hard. He’s still watching the sky, can’t see Marcus’ face and doesn’t dare to turn towards him to see. He’s about to say something, anything really, about to apologize, when Marcus releases him and instead threads their fingers together. Tomas lets out a breath, shaky, and it’s so loud, Marcus must know how embarrassed he is. Yet they say nothing, instead they fall asleep, hands clasped together.

 

**Author's Note:**

> once again......i've got no excuses for myself 
> 
> come yell at me @ blairwiches.tumblr.com


End file.
